MaryB and the City

Eat. Pray. Love.

[Two weeks ago]

Friend: So if Mr. Ex contacts you, do you think you can resist not responding?

Me: No.

Friend: [Pause] Why not?

Me: Because I don’t feel strong enough. I’m not at a place where I can not-not respond.

I had that converation on my birthday with one of my closest comrades. It was just her and I, speaking truths. My spirits were already in the gutter as a whole entourage of girlfriends hadn’t shown up for the anticlimactic celebration. But on the brink of having an epic pity party from being bailed on, and internally addressing being an aging SFO (single white female), and being recently rejected by 4 bachelors from The Match.com, back-to-back…and knowing 3 people who got engaged in less than 1 week, instead, I had an epiphany — that I’d be disgustingly authentic from here on out.

That I have spent so much time concerned about what others (particularly my inner circle) think of me, that it makes me Pepto-Bismol sick. Sure, relatively speaking, of course we want our loved ones to approve, support, and cheer us on…unconditionally, but that isn’t always the case when opinions and emotions soar high through the jaded-colored sky.

When Mr. Ex and I broke up last time, in the winter (Round 8 or so, if you’re counting), I had a break-through then, too.

“Love yourself first.” Those deliberate sounds have literally become a mantra of mine. If Buddhists and Yogis recite an Om when they meditate, then that is my own personalized succinct and heartfelt self-imposed love letter. I write or silently speak those 3 words daily, without fail.

All I’ve ever really known is loving others. If there is one thing I can unequivocally say at 31-years-old, it is that I consciously strive to live selflessly every single day. So much so, that I have also gotten lost in the crowd. I seldom look in the mirror, into my own eyes, and into my own heart, looking for insight and answers. Instead I often look and listen in the background’s reflection, wondering what others see, think, and feel. That stems from my upbringing though; needing approval, and rarely getting it. Constantly feeling a sense of not being good enough — someone with great potential, but who isn’t quite collectively living up to it.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I believe the best in others, even when they don’t necessarily deserve it, because that’s all I ever wanted. To have faith in me.

As I’ve documented for weeks months now, Mr. Ex hasn’t left me. He’s inside still. But not the ohmygodican’tbreathe sorta way. That’s the difference from the past. He used to be my oxygen. I can inhale and exhale on my own now, and feel much more sustained in my core. My foundation and footing isn’t contingent on his presence or inhabiting my world. But the fundamental meaning of who he is, and what he means to me, is completley unscathed.

Ever since he’s resurfaced in my world, even in the smallest way here and there, time has stood still. On a regular basis, I tuck away my most intimate, sacred, genuine feelings. Not only because they’re too big to swallow without choking, but because I’m terrifed my friends and family will not understand. They want to protect me. Hell, I want to protect me. But once again, wanting needing their fairy dust to love me regardless of what I say or do, no matter how dumb/insane/ridiculous it may be, is nearly debilitating.

The truth is, my soul feels stagnant. She wants to go forward. She wants to be free. She wants to find someone who will love her, the way she loves in return. She wants to erase the hurt. She wants to start over. She wants a renewed sense of patience. But she’s standing still. It’s this fucking force of nature magnet that I can’t seem to overcome.

Mr. Ex, will be always be Mr. Big in my heart. There are so many laws that have been broken in our mutual history. The Law of Attraction, Motion, and Gravity…which we defy. We always, inevitably, somehow or someway, come back around face-to-face.

Like on Saturday, while making the 5-hour journey back home from a week-long vacation at the beach…when I was summoned to a river house by our mutual friend. What should I have done? Thanked her for the gesture and invitation, but gone home to unpack and unwind. What did I do? I went to the river, saw my heart turned inside out in the flesh, and spoke to him again. Every mini-reunion we have, our converations evolve little by little, and pick up right where they left off: healing, learnings, emptiness, dating, happiness, marriage, lessons, friends, former friends, unanswered questions, family, parents, boundaries, trust, therapy, hope, lies, trust, heartbreak, love.

I’m a hot mess.

People have commented to me time and time again that I’m disciplined, and they’re “proud” of me, in various aspects of my life. When I set my mind to something, even a freight train won’t stop me. And yet lately, I’ve never felt more out of control, or more like a fraud. Food has been a trusted resource for pain…I usually have somewhat of a grip around sweets and such, but not even the slightest bit these days…full-on Intervention TV show binging. Exercise has been an afterthought. Pleading with God has become a hobby. Crying has been a steadfast routine.

Eat. Pray. Love.

The book, and now soon to be released movie, simply-put subtitle explanation is exactly how I feel: One Woman’s Search For Everything.

Tomorrow I’ll be revisiting my couch counselor. The unbiased friend-for-hire whom I chatted with on three occasions after the explosive Mr. Big break-up, equipped with a PhD degree, was remarkable, insightful, and a great fit for my tell-it-like-it-is personality. However, she told me I didn’t need weekly visits; I was healthy with a solid head screwed on my shoulders. Yet, I could “check in” as needed, ya know, for maintenance work.

My spirit needs an oil change, wheels need balancing, heart needs an alignment. And no matter what my exterior may look like to others from a distance, I’m finally going to [work on] focusing on the interior — detailing my insides, and dealing with the fact that he too, still shares that space with me.

“I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism.”
— Elizabeth Gilbert