The New Normal

"Ecstasy's a pill, and not a stolen kiss.
Character is vinegar without the piss
And pounding heart's not for love or art, but a beauregard's
And plastic knives will save your lives when they break apart

It's the new normal,
The new normal
The old way was OK
But this year's a new day...

And genius lost its meaning, it got kicked around
and slapped on fresh-faced artists
with that brand new sound..."

-The New Normal, by Mister Mann

Ironically enough, this is an artist The Optimist turned me on to. He's a Canadian singer-songwriter, and while his lyrics are rather depressing, I actually think the message is one of hope.

Or maybe that's just how I'm perceiving it.

Regardless, my new normal isn't what I would have thought it to be. It doesn't include certain people who I took to be fixtures in my life, and it does include those who I never would have guessed would mean so much to me.

And I'm OK with that. Because actually? I'm happy. I really am. And it's a strange sensation. I still second-guess myself when I say something stupid to the boy, automatically assuming he's going to knock me down a notch for it. Instead, he tends to laugh and say something equally ridiculous. Or he just leans over and kisses me. Tells me I'm adorable.

And it isn't patronizing, which is fascinating. The dynamic between us is something unique for me. I am so exceedingly comfortable being myself - my full-on, crazy, nerdy self - and that doesn't for a moment compromise how wanted I feel. In fact, I feel more consistently wanted and worthwhile than I have in a long, long time.

So I guess Friend was right about one thing - apparently my I-can't-be-a-girlfriend complex WAS utter bullshit. Of course, it took someone ELSE to show me that. But that's OK. Because the person who's showing me that is doing it so genuinely, and so compassionately, and so well that I'm actually not able to second-guess him.

I believe that he wants to see me. I enjoy being a part of his life, his family, his routine. I believe him when he kisses me and I feel it in my toes. I believe him when he says he wants to come to shows, parties, dates with me. Because he does.

And I certainly believe him when he pins me to the wall, his body pressed into mine as his teeth close down on my neck. I believe him as he strips off my clothes and throws me onto the bed, tying my hands above my head, his eyes all fire and passion and stormy seas.

So then I believe him as he traces his tongue down my body, lingering at my breasts and hip bones. And then I lose track of everything as his tongue finds what it's searching for, his fingers pumping in and out of me and curling inside me as his tongue traces and licks and laps at my clit. As he moans into me, my hips rise to meet his mouth and I can't stop moving. And he keeps going and I keep moving, and faster and faster and oh fuck oh god yes please don't stop fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

And then I'm shaking and he's smiling as he kisses his way back up my body.

And I do believe him, maybe most of all, as he lies down next to me and wraps his arms around my body, gently kisses my neck and pulls me tighter as we fall asleep together.

And just in case I find myself doubting, I am reassured when, in the morning, he's still there.

Hello Seattle

Play this:


Read this:

I was buzzing with anticipation the entire flight. Did this flight used to be two and half hours long? I swear it used to be shorter. It shouldn’t take me this long to get to you. Not after so much time. I guess, if you really think about it, it took me months – no, years – to get to you. So you can’t hold it against me that I’m so excited I can’t sit still. The poor woman next to me? Yeah, she might be holding it against me.

But I can’t manage to make myself think of anyone, or anything, but you. And I’m a terrible mess of excitement and nerves and desire and fear. And that fear kicks in more when our meeting doesn’t happen exactly like I thought it would. It was silly of me, of course, to want something so cinematic, but that’s what happens when I’m left with only my memories for four months. I get a little crazy.

The fear damn near takes over when you mention that the couch is available. My heart drops to the ground floor of your swanky apartment building. But before I can gather my thoughts, you point out that your bed is available, too.

And the way you say it, I remember that you’re just trying to be careful with me, not presumptuous. Of course, when it comes right down to it, you probably aren’t presumptuous enough if you compare it to the thoughts running through my head. So we pass some more pleasantries, and finally find ourselves in your bed. And that’s when it starts.

The next four days are a blur – a medley of your hands and your lips and your legs and your smile and the intensity you exude. I catch myself in disbelief every time you take my arm as we steel ourselves against the damp cold. And that cold isn’t anywhere near as pervasive as I remember it being. In fact, this city, which I was so ready to escape from, looks completely different when I’m looking at it standing next to you. Maybe it’s because you bring out the best in me and don’t allow me to fall into my pessimistic cycles… As if I could around you.

I can hardly recall the details of how we spent our time. But I know that I learned so much more about you. And I learned that you’re human. Which sounds silly, I’m sure, but it was important for me to be reminded of that. The funny thing is that realization, that fall of the idol, for lack of a better term, didn’t make me want you any less. In fact, it reinforced everything I thought about you.

And the balance we achieve when we’re together is incredible. I’m less neurotic, and you seem less hesitant. I love seeing your life, and pretending, even for those few days, that I’m a regular part of it. I love watching you play while I sit curled up on your giant chair with a glass of wine. You’re majestic, you know.

Somewhere between your arms around me as we fall asleep – and I love the tiny noises you make in your sleep – and the look on your face when I finally convince you to open your eyes, and you stretch your gorgeous body just to wrap it around mine again, I know. Somewhere between your kisses in the elevator, and picking out cheap wine at Trader Joe’s, I know. Or maybe it was somewhere between the waterfront and looking for your name on the tiles of the marketplace, I know. I may never be able to put my finger on the exact moment, but by the time I’m forced to get on a plane and leave you – with tears running down my face as I listen to the music you added to my playlist – I know.

I know that this – that you – are something incredible. I know that this will be different. I know that you are what I want – what I need – in my life. And I know, strangely enough, that neither of us are going anywhere.

It feels like we've been here before...

It's been a while since I've written anything overly personal on here. With my real-world job as a web editor (did I mention that I have a real-world job now? Like, an actual career?), I spend my entire workday staring at a computer screen, so sometimes I'm not overly eager to run home and do the same. I've been trading online interaction for actual, real life socialization. Imagine that!

But there are other reasons for the relative silence of late, too. And I haven't written about them in hopes that they would get better. But, the truth is, they aren't getting better. And I'm starting to feel myself slip down into those dark places I inhabited years ago... And I don't want to do that. In the past, you, dear readers, have been so incredibly helpful and gracious and insightful, that I thought perhaps I would turn to you again.

I've noticed changes in some of my habits. i think some of it is just antsy-ness - this is usually the time of year I would be headed back to school... So it's possible I'm still adjusting to and realizing that this is, in fact, my life. This is not a summer job and a summer apartment and summer flings, but rather the real thing.

Well, in some regards. Of course, it seems the things I wouldn't mind being temporary - the things I wouldn't mind trading out - are the things that are stable, and the things I so desperately want to hang on to are those which are slipping away from me. And it's started getting to me. I'm exhausted all the time. Regardless of how much sleep I get. Waking up is brutal, although I was getting good at waking up at 7am for work without much difficulty in the past month. That has stopped. Of course, when I do fall asleep, it's never through the night. This in and of itself, of course, doesn't mean much, but it seems to be just one part of a series of small problems that add up to something that feels unconquerable. I've gone back to always feeling rather sick - a combination of allergies and near-constant nausea that hasn't been so pervasive since, probably, high school.

If it hasn't been clear from my "frustratingly abstract" (according to Friend) posts, The Optimist is gone. Through no fault of his own, and no fault of mine. The universe decided to throw him a curveball, and he took the good, responsible, compassionate route out. A route that led him, suddenly and without a goodbye, far away from me and his other friends in this state. I don't hold the decision against him in the slightest - actually, quite the opposite. His making this sacrifice confirms my belief that he is this incredible, compassionate, giving person. It makes me respect him that much more. It absolutely supports my fascination with who he is and how he became this truly singular individual.

But his leaving hurt more than I thought it would. I've talked to Nonboyfriend about it - since he and I were in essentially the same boat, being unpleasantly surprised by The Optimist's sudden departure. I felt like (after convincing him that, no, I really wasn't going to turn into some crazy stalker and terrorize his best friend... Because we all know that I do that regularly) he and I could at least identify with each other's heartache. I don't say heartbreak, because that sounds too dramatic. But there is absolutely an ache. And it is palpable. And harder to ignore than I thought it would be. I'm not angry in the least. I am just very simply and without anything else, very sad. It's a pervasive kind of sadness that is at the same time purer than anything else I can remember feeling. I am sad for the loss of the memories I was so looking forward to making. I am sad for the departure of the butterflies that only inhabit my stomach when he's around me. I am sad to not feel that electricity when he touches me. I am sad to not feel his lips on mine and hope my knees don't give out but know even if they did he would catch me - and probably have some perfectly eloquent comment about it. I am sad to not know when I will see his face again. I am sad.

But I believe him (and Nonboyfriend) when they remind me he will be back. I know he will. And he hasn't misled me yet, so I don't expect him to begin now. (Right down to his parting salutation on the phone, which was, verbatim, what I've always told friends I wanted to hear from someone who wasn't sure when the next time they would call might be.) And, again, his reason for leaving is so good and so... HIM... that I couldn't do anything but support it. There was never any other option in my mind. I couldn't not support him. And I hope he knows that. The last thing I would ever want to be or do would be an additional burden for him. That isn't what good friends do, let alone lovers or partners or whatever we were. But it does leave me pining a bit for something I know I can't have. At least right now. And the uncertainty of when I may or may not see him again is eating at me, just a little. It makes it harder to overcome the sadness, because I don't have a set point to look forward to. It's too abstract.

And I know that wound, if that's what we'd call it, is especially fresh. It will caulderize with time... Although I hope my feelings for him don't. I love that I simply cannot have my walls up around him. I love that I feel safe and comfortable and happy knowing he's in my life. I love that he talks to me about life and art and philosophy and also that we can get drunk with my roommates and write haikus about a missing cat. Like I said, he's rather singular. I've never met anyone who affected me the way he does. And just like how it's so easy to get used to sleeping next to someone, and so difficult to get used to sleeping alone (I still sleep on my side of the bed, although I haven't had a regular sleeping-over partner in years), accepting that affectation makes it that much harder to forget about.

And other relationships are suffering as a result. A few nights ago, I completely flaked out on Bear. He was having a rough night and needed someone to talk to, and I just... fell asleep. And I felt so incredibly guilty in the morning. And he's told me that he's not upset, although his tone indicated otherwise. Mostly, though, I just feel awful for being such a shitty friend. My friends deserve better. And usually, I can deliver. I don't know why I couldn't then.

And my best girlfriend, C, is going through some really serious things. I want so badly to be there for her, and it kills me that there's only so much I can do. Going to dinner with her and giving hugs and texting everyday seems so inadequate for how much I love her and how much I want to make her pain disappear. And I know, ultimately, there isn't anything I can do to make it stop, to make it better for her. I just wish there was. But I do know she reads this, so I just want to reiterate, my love, that I am here for any and everything you might need. And I love you more than words, and I only wish there was more I could do. I want to make all this stop for you. I want to fix everything. And I know that I can't. And that just... destroys me.

Maybe that's the best adjective for how I feel right now. I feel destroyed. Not by any single event or person, but I feel just so helpless and out of control, that it's driving me crazy. I'm falling back into old patterns of coping with that loss of control. I don't even know HOW to process these things in a healthier way. And the last thing I want is help, as strange as that might seem. I just want to feel better. I want these things that hurt the people I love to vanish (yes, even when I am one of those things). I don't want any of this. I don't want to feel like this.

funny story.

I don't miss you anymore. I really don't. I think you might be one of the few people I have entirely moved on from. I don't even want you anymore. I don't remember what you smelled like.

I only barely remember what you made me feel like.

And in so many ways, that's such a good thing. You have moved on so completely, and so have I. Of course, your recipient is ohsoclose to you, and mine is - once a-fucking-gain, a thousand miles away. But that's the way it is, I suppose. But it was, I'll admit, hard to bite my tongue when we got into specifics. Because under any other circumstances, we'd be sharing this information. Which in no way means you have to share.... I'm just saying.

But it's funny, because there is a difference. There is a difference in how I feel. There is a difference in what I do. I wouldn't go so far as to say something crazy, but I do feel some kind of strange connection. And I know you do too. In case you forgot that I know you read this. Lovelovelove. I'm not ashamed to say it. It's ALWAYS a good thing to send more love into the universe.

And I won't apologize for it. Especially when I'm pretty sure love is what you most need right now.

Fiction

I couldn't stop looking at you. I couldn't stop myself from melting into your arms. It's a miracle I managed to keep my heart inside my chest each time you touched me. I don't think you have any idea how you affect me.

Because I notice the way your eyes flash when you look at me. How they're smoldering and cool all at once, and I know you see mine turn greener every time you mention my name. And I see the way you smirk at me when you think I don't know what's on your mind. Or maybe that's when you know I do know. Exactly what you're thinking.

And I can't get enough of the way your mouth just makes me melt. Everything about it - your kisses, with your soft, full lips that find such perfect rhythm with mine so easily. Your tongue, and the way it explores my mouth and my body and makes me shiver in anticipation. Your words, and the way they are so beautiful and eloquent and perfect that they can't be real. Because no one speaks like that in real life. No one is so cool and collected and graceful and simultaneously selfless and giving. That only happens in fiction.

And it must be fiction, the way our bodies collide and you wrap me in your arms. It must be fiction, how I can feel your whole body lean into the kisses you lavish on me and yet always leave me wanting more. Nothing you do is single-handed. All of it seems to incorporate your entire body, your entire being...

And it makes too much sense to be ironic when you tell me you take things hard and slow. The explanation proves too confoundingly true to be fact. The things you say to me must be fictional. The way you move inside me must be the stuff of fantasies, and not of this dreary realism we call home. Your beauty and your persistent optimism are too free of irony and naiveté to survive this place. Maybe to survive me. But at the same time, it's so infectious that I hear myself second-guess my negativity.

Your sincerity is too poetic to be composed. Everything I've seen you do is poetry.

Like when you throw me to the bed and don't for a second let our lips part. Or you pull away and I can feel both our flushed skin, and see your eyes radiating in the dark. Some mysterious color that no name would do justice to. It's all passion and intelligence and perfection and fiction because it couldn't possibly be reality. And when you slide your mouth down my body and don't bother stopping to ask permission and before I can protest, my hands are tangled at the sheets, grasping for anything to hold onto my grip on reality. Then you are relentless in your efforts, and suddenly you have control of my body and are pushing all the right buttons at the same time you're only pushing one and the room explodes and leaves just you and I. Me panting and floating, you smiling and gloating.

So I'll bring you to me because when it comes to you, insatiable doesn't begin to cover my appetite. There is, quite simply, nothing else on the menu, no other nourishment, when you are here. Everything before and everything after ceases to exist. There is only you and I and the only thing I can focus on is your skin on mine and the electric charge that comes from that contact, and hearing you say those beautiful, violent, obscene words with such eloquence and unrestrained passion that I can't believe it exists.

my night inside a chick flick

I shouldn't have listened to my insecurities. I shouldn't have worried so much. I shouldn't have been so pessimistic about it. Although, I guess that's the thing about optimism, is it always seems that much more striking in the face of such persistent negativity.

But I should have known better than to think I could resist. Not that I really wanted to. Or wanted to at all, in fact. Because just like I remembered, as soon as he smiled at me, I was disarmed. And I think I made it an entire five minutes before I just HAD to kiss him again. What can I say? I had to see if it lived up to what I remembered.

And, good lord. Did it. He put his hand along my jaw, just barely grazing my neck, and pulled me into his kiss. And just like I remembered doing, I melted. Urgency increased, his grip around my body strengthened, and we found ourselves falling into my bed. Or maybe it was the lounge chair in my room. I really couldn't say - I was already floating away.

I didn't used to be this way. What I mean is, I haven't been this way before. Where someone's kiss literally makes me weak in the knees. Clouds my head and distracts me from everything else I should be doing and where I should be going and who I should be seeing. But that's what happens. I forget there's anything else, and focus on the butterflies. Damn butterflies. Sneaking up on me like that.

At some point, we remembered that we had places to go and people to meet and time to spend together. So we walked, hand in hand, to the neighborhood bar to meet my roommates for a drink.

When the spontaneous evening plans we had fell through, we turned the car around and headed back to town. "We could take a walk around the lake near my house, if you wanted," I suggested. He agreed, recommended we grab a bottle of wine for the stroll. A bottle of wine became a bottle of champagne to accompany the perfectly warm night. And the stroll became finding an outcropping of grass and sitting near the water's edge, looking at the stars and the city lights.

Over champagne we shared secrets and laughter and those kinds of conversations that only come about when you're really interested in what the other person is saying. I kept looking from the city buildings to the sky which had cleared itself of clouds ("Just like I knew it would. I knew it would be a beautiful night," he tells me, without irony.) then back to him and I can't believe how often he's smiling at me. And how all of this seems so surreal and cinematically perfect.

Like when I suggest I want to go spin, and he stands up with me and takes my hands and we spin in circles until we're giggling and collapse on top of each other. And he kisses me in the grass until I'm breathless again and then helps me up.

We strolled back to the car, his fingers intertwined with mine. I drove us back to my house, where my roommates were drinking and listening to music. They greeted us with broad, warm smiles, told us how happy they were that we were back early. By the time I'd returned with our drinks, he was already engaged in conversation with my roommates, who seemed to be enjoying his company nearly as much as I was. ("Beautiful social graces," was my roommate's term for how open and inviting he was, and how he brought conversation out of even my quietest roommate.)

I lost track of what, exactly they were talking about, because the conversation went on for at least an hour. If there was any break in the flow, I didn't see it. As I stopped buzzing around the house and returned to the party, he situated himself near me, and put his hand around my waist. We stole a kiss here and there, and eventually excused ourselves. I blamed the need to wake up for work in the morning.

I stepped out before he did, so I sat down on the grass outside and stared up at the stars again. Took a deep breath, and couldn't stop smiling a smile I felt through my entire body. He followed a minute or two later. Kneeling in front of me on the grass, he murmured, "do you have ANY idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you in there?"

"Well, why did you, then?" I asked.

And with that, he was on top of me. Kissing me hard, and passionately, and so perfectly that I could do nothing but melt into him.



And the best part? None of this is fiction.

What's on my mind...

and stuck in my head.

I'm working on another post, but writing it is harder than I thought it would be. Because the memories are distracting. So instead, today you're getting this.

I couldn't find the original Broadway version of this song, which is how I saw it performed. Original Broadway cast, in its first year. It won nine Tonys that year. And earned every one.

So, Spring Awakening has been stuck in my head. This song in particular. Guess what I want...

Sunday mornings...

...are sometimes my favorite moments of a week. Last week, Sunday morning found me lying on the grass, sun dappling my skin as it shone through the tree leaves above me, my head on The Optimist's shoulder, one hand in his, and my other arm around The Scientist, who's head was resting on my chest. We weren't saying much, because nothing needed to be said. We were tracing lazy, delicate circles across one another's skin, running fingers through hair, gently kissing foreheads. After the emotionally charged night we'd just completed, it was the perfect come-down. In fact, it was very nearly perfect regardless of how the night before or any other night had been spent. It was one of those beautiful Colorado summer mornings, that powder-blue cloudless sky, sun warming us just as a gentle breeze rustled the grass and cooled our faces.

Perhaps this Sunday morning isn't as epically romantic or exceedingly perfect. But I still find myself very, very happy. I am the first one awake after coming back to my mother's from a very late night singing Karaoke and flashing back to last summer with Roomie. It's just myself and my cat, and we essentially have the house to ourselves. I've dressed myself in one of my boys' T-shirts, which hangs off my chest and just barely covers my ass, showing off just a little bit of my uncharacteristically blue underwear. Wearing this shirt, which belonged to P once, makes me realize that I have managed to end up with T-shirts (or a button-down) from every old lover, but have none from any of my current partners. I decide I need to change this. I will need to stealthily acquire shirts from my partners. And by stealthily, of course, I mean asking if I can sleep in his shirt, and then asking if I can keep it in the morning. I do love the way a boy's shirt smells like him. It's good for helping me to not feel so alone on those nights when I am, in fact alone.

But this morning, as I have the house to myself, I boot up my computer, and go straight to the playlist I created when The Optimist and I were together last. (Yes, I saved the playlist.) It's mostly pretty acoustic songs, with a mild dose of mush thrown in there. I remember making the list as he and I were lying in my bed and him (at least humoring me) that we have strikingly similar taste in music. In any case, all of it is beautiful. And it makes me happy. And so I decide to start dancing around my empty house. In my T-shirt and underwear, dancing to Matt Nathanson and Joshua Radin and Jay Brannan and Angels & Airwaves and Regina Spektor and Citizen Cope.

And I realize how exceedingly happy I am. Without complications. I am, very simply, very content. I have been so incredibly lucky as of late with several things. Some of them are material and haven't quite materialized yet, so again, I'm hesitant to jinx them. But it's so much more than that. I am realizing how incredibly lucky I am to be surrounded by so many beautiful, giving, incredible people. I honestly believe I am one of the luckiest people in the world. I have so much love in my life - already more than I think most people ever get to experience. And, as I wrote about earlier this week, I feel like it's even warranted. That doesn't feel like being conceited, though. It really feels like, now that I'm so keenly aware, I want to make sure I appreciate it and let these people know how wonderful they make my life.

See? Look at how mushy I've become. It all started with last weekend, with The Scientist, and yes, meeting The Optimist. I do blame some of this optimism on him - it's definitely contagious. But all of my friends, my New Family have had a part in it. C certainly had a major role with her revelation. And it's just kept spreading. The Pilot is coming to visit next week. I've come to some conclusions about other people in my life and am able to be so much more zen about it. Not hoping to find things from partners that they simply aren't able to give me. And just being able to appreciate them for that.

And there will be some changes. All of this optimism has come with a new kind of self-awareness on what makes me happy, and what it feels like to be so happy. I will be moving away from those things that don't make me happy, spending more time around and doing those things that do make me happy. And things are just going to keep getting better.

I'll close with one of those songs The Optimist and I both realized we love. Thank you, Ms. Spektor.

The truth about my past.

I am not defective. I do not destroy everything I touch. I am allowed to be happy. I deserve to be treated well.

These sound like simple statements to some, I suppose. But they are something I had not fully realized until this weekend and, largely, before quite possibly the most intimate conversation I've ever had with my best girl friend, C. She came over on Wednesday for a late lunch, because I wanted to be girly and gush about my weekend. We went to get salads and margaritas (the upgraded version of the chef salads we used to eat with our fingers in high school), and I started gushing essentially immediately. It was along the same lines of my last entry, with maybe a little more blushing and giggling.

I was emphasizing to her how it makes me a little nervous how much I like The Optimist and what a strong connection I feel with him. She reminded me that it is, indeed, OK to be swept off your feet sometimes. I just haven't been open to it in a long time. So we started talking about why I was so hesitant to believe that people might like me or that I might even be worth liking.

A little background: I am quite confident about myself, when it comes to two things - my writing and my sexual prowess. (Yes, that's largely why this blog exists, haha.) But Relationships, in the traditional sense, terrify me. I capitalize the R in Relationships intentionally, because I mean those in the more standard and socially acceptable sense. Those kind terrify me because I hold myself solely responsible for the demise of the few Relationships I've had. I have always done something to fuck it up, and because of that I've always felt like I deserved to be left. I haven't felt like I deserved someone in a long time.

I have told myself that I was OK with being the secret, the secondary. And in many ways, I am. But my justification, which I still believe, is that it was unreasonable to expect any single person to be everything someone needed. That was based not so much in my inability to believe that someone could be everything I needed, but that I would never be enough for someone. After all, I screw up Relationships. Sex, I'm good at. Friendships, I can usually manage. But Relationships? Absolutely not.

Perhaps the most spectacular example, in my mind, of my botching a good thing and thereby indicative of my inability to carry out a Relationship was how things ended with Ex. We were together (on and off, but mostly on) for five years. We made the decision to stay together for the first year of college, even though we were going to school across the country from one another. When we were both home for Christmas that year, he gave me a ring. It was expressly NOT an engagement ring, but I wore it (with his permission) on my left-hand ring finger. It was white gold (he knew I don't wear much gold or yellow), sapphire and diamonds. It was beautiful.

Five months later, after flying across the country to drive home with me, he broke up with me.

I have always held myself responsible for this. I don't know that I could even supply the reasoning, but there has never been any doubt in my mind that it was my fault that he didn't love me anymore. In the course of our Relationship, he had always been the stable one. He's pragmatic to a fault, and I (even more so then) am emotional and impulsive. Clearly, it was something I had done that had driven him away. I had been a bad girlfriend, because I didn't have the Girlfriend Gene.

C knew this is how I've felt. Despite an incident that first summer where The Scientist quite literally yelled at me to stop defending Ex and believe that he hurt me and he was wrong to do so, I held myself responsible. I deserved it, after all.

But today at lunch, C and I were talking about my insecurities and my fears about Relationships and how I destroy them. And she just looked at me and said "No, you don't." I looked at her with appropriate confusion.

"You didn't destroy things with Ex. In fact, you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't change anything about you or who you were. He changed, not you. It had everything to do with him, and nothing to do with you. He fucked up by giving you that ring when he wasn't sure about your Relationship. But all you did was believe what he led you to believe. He decided ON HIS OWN that you two weren't going to work. He did it on his own. It was. Not. Your. Fault. He mislead you. You're just a good person that got fucked over."

I didn't know whether to cry or start giggling. I had honestly never thought of it like that. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I believed what he said to me, what he told me was true. That was it. The decision, really, in the end, didn't have anything to do with me. (I don't mean to imply here that I was the perfect girlfriend throughout the relationship, because I certainly did things wrong. But in that period when we were separated, I actually was a committed, faithful and devoted girlfriend.)

It was an earth-shattering realization. No one had ever explained it to me like that. And I had been too hard on myself to see it from that angle. As the tears started welling up behind my eyes, though, it sunk in. She was right. The truth about my past isn't that I'm defective or inherently unlovable or perpetually insufficient. The truth about my past is that I got hurt when I wasn't expecting it. And when I didn't deserve it. That's it.

And I have built so many of my beliefs presently on the firm belief that I am simply insufficient and defective, that hearing C say this to me, and honestly believing her, was truly astounding. And I can already feel the ramifications. It means that I am allowed to be happy. Because it means that maybe things aren't inherently doomed. It means that I can be silly, because I don't have to worry about a responsibility to warn my partners about what a danger I am to them. It means that I don't have to automatically invalidate and be suspicious of strong feelings I might have. Because they aren't necessarily going to end in disappointment and heartache.

Perhaps this seems like an excessively sweeping revelation for something ostensibly solely regarding a Relationship that is far away and gone. But that Relationship was so important, that showing me a different perspective on that has shown me a different perspective on so many other things. It doesn't change my childhood. It doesn't change the pessimism or skepticism that growing up with my family has bred into me. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still not sure monogamy will ever be right for me. It doesn't invalidate the Relationships and relationships I've had since Ex.

But it might change the future. It does change what I think I am capable of. It changes what I think I am worthy of. It changes my no-other-options pessimism about Relationships. In many ways, it redefines who I might be able to become. To myself, and even maybe to someone else. For the first time, I actually believe that I am worthy of it. I believe that I deserve to be loved. I deserve to be so lucky to be surrounded by incredible friends and lovers. Who are honest and beautiful and brilliant and making my world and the world at large a better place simply by being in it. I believe that I might have the capacity to make people happy. I believe that I might be worthy of being loved, someday.

I believe that I do NOT deserve to have people like Edward still sending me messages and emails. I believe that I do NOT deserve to be made to feel guilty for being honest about who I am and what I do. I believe that I do NOT need to apologize for the same. I believe that I am NOT solely responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to me.

And I feel so free.

I am not defective. I do not destroy everything I touch. I am allowed to be happy. I deserve to be treated well.

Feels just like I'm falling for the first time...

I'm going to go ahead and title this entry as such, even though I already know Friend thinks it's cheesy, and overly mushy or whatever, but I'm rolling with it. It's not only appropriate, it happens to be the theme song of the weekend, and the boy this entry is about, well, he already knows this song makes me think of him. And I should warn you that this might be the most giggly, girly rant I've published to date. I blame the boy.

But I'm not sure what to call him. There are so many things about him that fascinate me, I can't pick one to focus on. Every time I talk to him, I learn more about him and I am increasingly amazed. I cannot say enough good things about him. And he's done so many things, and in many ways, IS so many things, that I'm having trouble picking just one thing to identify him with. But what astounds me most about him (and he knows this), is his persistent optimism. It isn't naiveté in any way, but rather the honest and true belief that things will work out, that everything happens for a reason, and, I think, that people and life are generally and genuinely good. And that belief, that personality, is in such stark contrast to my own that I am just endlessly fascinated by it. By him, really. So, dear readers, allow me to introduce you to The Optimist.

He is a dear and long-time friend of some of my own dear and long-time friends, although we had never met before this weekend. At least not in any official capacity - we realized he had come to a party at my house in high school, but I don't know that we were introduced at that time. I met him this weekend at what became, essentially, a weekend-long lovefest at Nonboyfriend's house, along with Nonboyfriend's girlfriend, myself and The Scientist.

But all that is a story for another entry. Or five. This is just an introduction to The Optimist. I should preface this that I am a little nervous about writing on here, not because I've told him about the blog (although I have), but because often, when I put things I'm excited about into print, it seems to jinx them. And I would really, really like to NOT jinx this burgeoning relationship with The Optimist. If you hadn't known, you wouldn't be able to tell that we met just four days ago. While we're counting this weekend as our first actual meeting, it seems like we've known each other much longer. I'm hesitant to speak too much for him, but I know, for my part, I am shockingly comfortable around him.

He is warm and inviting and completely disarming. The optimism is contagious, affecting even my jaded moods. He's clearly brilliant - and a good deal more intelligent than I am - but I've never once felt talked-down-to. That intelligence is well rounded and applied and reflected in his speech and diction, but he isn't so proper that profanities don't escape occasionally (yes, sometimes at really opportunely sexy moments).

And speaking of sexy... His kisses are just... there are no words. Me. I have no words for how fantastic they are. They really should be a controlled substance, because I'm pretty sure I'm already addicted. And he'll bring his hand to my jaw and pull me to him and and and *swoon.* With some guidance from The Scientist, but also largely on his own, he's already figured out where my buttons are, and he takes non-verbal direction better than possibly anyone I've ever met. My skin, my entire body, is electrified when I am near him. It's like there's some current running through me, recharged every time his lips touch mine or his hands touch my skin or or or. And he says these beautiful things to me, and I love watching his eyes change color, or when he looks at me and smiles, a little sleepy, and pulls me tighter.

But it's more than that. And that's what really has me fascinated and simultaneously terrified. Because while, yes, I want him, I want to be around him. I want to talk to him. I want to hear about his life, I want to hear his thoughts on things, I want to hear him sing along to the car radio... I just want to know more about him. He listens to me when I talk, and asks questions that prove he's listening. And I find it so natural to return the favor, because he's just fascinating. It isn't that I don't find my other partners interesting, but at present, I've known them all for years, so the relationship is already established. I already know that I'm interested in them, and I know how to listen to them because we've spent so much time together. The Optimist and I have spent perhaps 24 hours with each other (total), and I feel like he has already reached that same level that I have with other partners I've known for years.

And that is scary. Establishing that kind of connection usually takes me much longer than it has with The Optimist. And I've talked to him about most of this, and he has taken it all in stride. Listened to my fears, validated them, and then, if need be, talked about them. I don't feel quite as much like a crazy person around him. I feel like maybe my feelings are reciprocated. Mostly because he tells me they are. Oh so eloquently.

So, yeah, basically, I'm in trouble. And can't wait to get into some more.