It’s been months. 6 to Christmas day since I’ve been tumbling downwards, spilling blood of this heart, coughing up mania, and scrubbing myself of him.

It’s also been a year to when I first met him and it’s as if I was NOT looking for love, even though I think about it often. Probably more than most. I’m obsessed with idea of spending time with someone. On couches. in cars. in beds. under sheets.

If my life wasn’t the blueprint for a blessing as well as the recipe for the perfect storm of trauma, I’d not be where I am, so for that I’m grateful.

However, fast forward. Many years spent wondering (but also OK with it) why does blood rush to my head and my heart, as well as between my legs whenever I saw a man. Clenched fist as hard as I was.

Sad songs, dancing alone at prom, first kisses, no dates. Years later, where was I? 24. In a new city, that I had to fight tooth and nail to get to. Scarred, bumped, bruised, open but yet so closed. But I was Surviving.

Auditions. Interviews. Crumpled fast food receipts. I didn’t dream too big but also didn’t accept medicore. & then I took a risk. I went from crying to laughing maniacally, to hearing them snicker and then I felt good. I walked out the room. Walking as I always do. Proud for the experience.

A call-back came. I woke up, went in, feeling out of place but open to the experience. I tend to always feel out of place, even though I may seem to the outside view that I fit right in.

He said hello. He liked my jacket. I would’ve normally thanked him and made conversation, but I was short. Short as If I was out of breath, when my eyes met his. Thank you. I would’ve normally, made a small joke, a quip. In his “hello”, he seemed like a Heartbreaker. He’d definitely stain my new jacket. He’d spill blood from this heart. It’d ruin this jacket. I love this jacket.

I also love this heart, but.. I was tired. Tired of being the boy next door; Sexy in my own way, yet overlooked. I was the good friend, the convenient one. I still am. I love that about myself. But I was 24. Older. I’ve patched myself up one too many times, and if this happened again, I’d just might need someone to fix me.

So I didn’t talk more. I didn’t talk about the jacket.

Until.

We both left. Same first names, closer last names. If only I put myself first like the first letter of his last name did before mine.

I’m walking away, jacket in hand, closer to my car, look back at him. Realizing I could never see him again, still walking cause I didn’t have time, but then I found myself running back to him, fumbling, asking for an email. Trying to make convo.

Offers came times later I drunkenly searched his instagram one night, found a photo that made my heart buzz. Found out we had similar interest. Music being one. I loved music. It’s been a coping skill since days in my rooms with wet pillows, wet underwear, and sweaty foreheads. I’d dance around my room and dream big. Dream far. Pray for more. Wish alot. My phone buzzed, with words I never really look at, “congratulations”.

So I waited, impatiently, Idk. I was always a level headed person. I thought rationally but dreamed big, but impatient, I emailed him. “You get any good news yet? trying to be mysterious yet to the point. Didn’t want to reveal my truth but also didn’t want to ask for his. He replied postively, ended it with a ” :)”.

That fucking smile. his smile. Mostly his eyes and his words.

Fast forward, we clicked in training, 3 men in the room with the same name amongst others who presented themselves. Men from different walks, similar interest, personalities. One as dark as me, skin like the streets, dipped in cocoa butter, seasoned with gold dust. Warm like hot chocolate and a color to match. Him, olive skinned, wild hair, shoulders like tree branches.

I saw potential in him, so I reached out. a few times. He responded. We attempted.

Never, happened until 1 night. We hung out. Fast forward, clothes wet from the pool. 3 of us. truth or dare. Drunk words. Stoned thoughts. We’re in his car. He screams at me, ” I don’t know you, but I want to”. ” I scream back, well Idk, Let me fix you, you seem broken.  Favorite color? Green. Any siblings? 21 questions twice.”. He’d told me he looked me in the eyes and let me know that he was here for me, and I screamed jokingly; half a lie, half the truth “Please don’t, I’d want to Kiss you”. He understood, yet nervously laughed it out.. He wasn’t comfortable with the night, but we moved on. He liked the notion of “reset”. I was hesitant, yet optimistic.

We hung out a few times. He’d come over. We’d talk about our dreams, light candles, light flowers of the earth, exchange secrets. In texts, we’d argue but always appreciate each other for the truth. He’d prove himself to be truthful yet all the while, I’d knew he was lying inside.

I wanted nothing more than what he could offer me. I knew what it was when I signed up.  I knew that a Man like him, 4 years younger, old enough to bring over wine, was a tad bit bright eyed and bushy tailed than I.

I knew it couldn’t be him. He couldn’t be the one who would mess me up. We sat on the bed one evening, talking, randomly, before we fell asleep in my bed, him at the bottom, me in the corner at the top. Scrunched up in a ball, 5’10 frame curled as if I had my secrets in my belly, and If I relaxed, they’d spill out. Him 5’11, dreaming, face twitching, tired. I saw it on him. He worked hard. I felt like I knew him but goodness, I knew nothing of him. His secrets, his bad habits. I yearned for that. Authenticity wasn’t a romantic thing for me, it was a must for any ship that I sailed on. The one of friendship or relations. Platonic or not.

Words were woven in our friendship. Long text messages to each other. Frustration.  Pseudo-arguments about seemingly nothing. Me asking him could he meet me halfway, him not. Him telling me what he required, me taking a back seat, never asking to sit in the front. Us fixing things out.

Until that 6th month. He let me down, hard. We planned a trip. Just as friends. Both of us tumbled by the events arounds us. Men who look like us, dead more often that not. Guys like me thrown from rooftops like frank said. School, work, home. I needed to recharge. Me telling him, on this trip lets take some space from each other, to get in tune with our crafts. Him with his writing. Me with my thoughts, my words, my self. We argued, I wanted a small bit of effort on his part. He offered, I rejected. It wasn’t appropriate.

The text came. “I can’t go, I need space. Just like you asked for before but never went thru with, I’m serious. I intend on feeling no different about you, if you don’t care to be my friend”. Instead of asking why, I obliged. I never questioned. I was taught growing up that my reactions we’re wrong. So as an adult, if I react, it’s polar yet extreme. I go either way.

I was crying but why? What was wrong with me. If anyone else let me down, would I be this hurt? I knew he would do this. So I laughed, then cried, then I was angry.
I refused to go in a depressive episode. I didn’t eat my feelings. I showered. I used special soap, my favorite lotions, I washed my sheets. vacuumed my floors. Washed my face. Moisturized my hair.  I didn’t smoke nor drink.

I listened to good music, r&b. Rhythm and blues. I moved to the rhythm while feeling blue. I ran. I swam. I went swimming at 10pm, though I can’t. I moved thru water hoping to leave him and the feelings with him in the water.

I read. Watched tedxtalks. All along, I grew. I developed new habits. Tea in the morning with some jazz. Warm showers with R&B. Office work with Classical. Drive homes with Pop music. Weekends with folk music.

Yet, I was optimistic about him. So sometimes we still texted and argued. I wanted to know what was going on, but we still argued. I told him the more time apart, the more things will fester. We need to either close up shop or move forward.

We remained stagnant.

September, a hurricane was coming into town and threatened. I texted him. I remember him and his mom weren’t doing so well. I offered him shelter. He could’ve used the couch. It was a stretch, but it was who I was. He said, “he’d be fine, let’s reunite after the storm”. I slept on the closet floor wishing he was with me. Why? I guess I like to finish things. The setting of my room was a reminder.

We never reunited. I asked him for maybe a phone call. He was set on lunch. He liked lunch. He had that ability to lie to himself, ignore my words, and go with whatever he felt. I went along with the ride instead of putting my foot down, for fear of what he or others might think of me. Lunch was a stretch, I couldn’t see him face to face. Hearing his voice, taking the edge off, giving me time to breathe.

We never reunited. He cancelled on me. 12 minutes voice memo of him off to his next plan. He mentioned how he lived with her, his ex girlfriend. She doens’t like me. She seems cool. Beautiful she is. He moved in with her around the time he cancelled with me. It didn’t bother me because I knew where I stood. I respected all of him without so much as a loss to myself. But their he was, Manic as always. He had no time for me. I reserved a whole afternoon for him. For myself. For myself after I saw him. I had my lotion picked out, soap set out, pajamas on the bed, my Spotify playlist arranged, wine was chilled. I even got a haircut. Whatever I needed to remind myself of who I was before he came along.

We never reunited. I tried to not be manic. I tried so hard but I screamed. Screamed asking my body to produce tears and take away this feeling in my chest. I walked past my jacket on the couch. It was stained. I knew, I cursed myself under my breath. I texted him. I waited some time. I called him. He couldn’t face me. Told me their were parts of my personality he didn’t like. That hurt alot. What was wrong with me? and if their was any confusion, I’m sure closure would figure things out.

We never reunited. So I sat on the couch, attending to my own wounds, taping myself twice, putting a knot at the ends of my stitches, but am I fixed?

I write this months later because I feel good. I’ve gotten use to the feeling of the roller coaster. I’m okay with it. I’m also still hurting, but without reason. I’ve noticed my appetite has changed, it’s harder to fall asleep. It’s not because of him. I’m uneasy with myself. I have no reasons to dislike yet I ask for some. When I dislike him, in the moment, I’m angry yet I always ration with myself.

So what next? am I allowed to be brokenhearted? Who would reserve this emotion for a man they’ve  never dated? Why couldn’t he see me. How many times can I write my words out without moving on. When will I stop associating him with my favorite songs? Broken hearts bleed on my favorite ballads. Sex seeps on my favorite sensual songs. Anger amplifies on my favorite musicals.

I feel better. I do.

but.. what’s next?

When will I actually feel better.
My happiness isn’t contingent on someone else yet in this life, it’s weird to think 1 person could mess me up like this. Whether it’s him or me whose that one person, what next? What to make of these ingredients with no recipe.

What to do when some days I don’t feel and others I feel too much.

Am I allowed to be broken hearted?