We’re all in this together.

Navigation

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

I hate how much more difficult navigation is after a breakup. Certain places, movies, tv shows, musicians, entire musics now feel off-limits. Because they’re sacred. Because the two of you shared them together. It seems blasphemous to do these things or go to those places on your own.

I restored the ipod Bill had lent me when mine was stolen. I kept his music on it for the longest time, expecting to eventually buy my own and return his with all of his music on it. We said our goodbyes last night. He told me to keep the ipod if it was still working. So I did. I restored it and started adding my music to it. One of my all-time favorite albums is Deja Entendu. We listened to it on one of our first dates. He cleaned his room for me and told me that I would never again see his room as clean as it was that day. I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. That album reminded me of high school, so to have a guy play that in college made me immediately nostalgic and like a sponge to soak up new memories. Soak them up, I did. I think that was the first time we really kissed. The first exciting kiss that leaves you hungry for more than a brush of the lips.

Anyway, I’m not ready to put that on my ipod.

Most of our relationship took place in Oshkosh. It’s probably for the best that I don’t live in that city anymore. I don’t feel ready to go to my favorite bar because I remember the time we sat by the bar while jazz played, and he folded up a dollar bill and somehow managed to squeeze it in my locket. He told me to save it for emergency money. It came out of my locket last night and I had what can only described as an anxious breakdown over a very crispy dollar bill.

Aside from the tangible things, of course my mind has become a minefield. I’ll start thinking about something and one thought leads to another until I get to the slightest thing that reminds me of him and then I start crying. I did that a few times at the mall last night. I started out fearless. Andrea and I went with me to do some retail therapy. I saw a pad of paper. One of those tongue-in-cheek list things. We used to send them to each other. I have the pads, and I would mark off lists like “Things You Need to do to Make me Happy” or “Why I Need to Have Sex with You” or “Things You Need to do to Make the World Happy”. And I would spritz it with my perfume and send it to him. He’d do the same, only spraying it with his cologne, the one we picked out together. I saw it in a little boutique and I started crying. It was pathetic.

It’s just surreal how dangerous daily life feels. The slightest thing becomes incendiary. I feel like I need to shut off my mind, because so much of it is filled with him. Nearly every part of my day has the potential to be terrifying, simply because my mind is so vulnerable and as a consequence, over-actively making connections as a desperate attempt to hang onto something I never thought I would lose.

No, this is not the end of my life. Yes, this is the end of a very happy chapter, and moving on is going to be one of the most painful things I ever do.

On Hope

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

A few weeks ago, Bill and I made the decision to finally bring this whole long distance thing to a close. We’re both getting tired of it and I’d been planning on doing this anyway. I was going to move in with him in his two-bedroom apartment in Oklahoma. It was exciting. Finally, I was going to see the man I love every day instead of a few days at a time with weeks or months in between. It was exciting. It seemed inevitable that we would do this. I’ve been told by acquaintances that we look like a couple who has been together forever and who will be together forever. When we were both living in Oshkosh, if I went somewhere alone, I had a half dozen people ask me where Bill was. It was the kind of relationship I’ve been longing for since I was fifteen – one where you’re inexplicably tethered to the other. My past relationships were nothing really like that. I often felt like an optional accessory, one my boyfriends felt they could wear when they wanted and throw in the back of the closet when they were bored.

Basically, I felt unimportant. And my romantic experience hadn’t afforded me opportunities in which I felt allowed to feel important. That fact is an issue entirely its own. Berate me for low self-confidence and I’ll tell you every girl struggles with that. Berate me for dating assholes and I’ll tell you if a girl hasn’t, she’s at least been tempted. Berate me for realizing the signs, allowing this to happen and I’ll tell you I have no idea what I was thinking. I have no explanation.

But then in walked Bill and all was changed. He constantly made me feel beautiful and important. Other boyfriends told me they valued my intelligence, but Bill was actually interested in what I had to say. Bill challenged me and loved when I could challenge him. It was invigorating. I always felt free to share things with him. Early on, I was able to tell him the things I was most ashamed of. Scary yes, but I was not afraid of him judging me as other boyfriends had. I felt as if I had found a partner and an equal with whom I could spend years with.

Of course everybody feels like that early on in relationships. The beginnings are always blooming with possibilities and anticipation. You’re eager to learn whatever you can about the person. You kiss them so many times you become numb to what a kiss actually is since you never have to worry if another will follow. You take for granted those silly moments – naps on rainy afternoons, white zinfandel-soaked Scrabble games, Arrested Development marathons, and the times you unenthusiastically  watched Star Wars movies with him. Those moments become lost in your mind because every day is full of them.

When things changed and I was 900 miles away from him, those moments took on a fresh sweetness and importance. Each interaction we shared on visits was something to be cherished since they were so few and far between. So the prospect of the distance closing and being able to create new moments and memories was exciting to me. It was that same invigoration I felt at the beginning of our relationship.

Relocating from the home I’ve known for 24 years was an intimidating prospect. But the fact that I had someone there to help me figure things out and to support me when I became overwhelmed, lonely, or scared made it easier. The fact that I was going to be with the man I love made it okay. So I got excited about it all. I decided to take this move as an opportunity to sort of reinvent myself. I began to work out and eat better. I started getting rid of things I hadn’t used in months. I started looking at all the possibilities. Instead of limiting myself to searching for clerical and administrative jobs, I began applying for writing and editorial positions. I began writing more. I read more, studying the way great essayists craft their pieces, seeing how the at first apparently unrelated threads of an essay braid together to create the meaning.

I was excited about the future and I couldn’t wait to do this with Bill at my side again.

But yesterday I woke up to something that put all of this on hold. Without going into detail, I’ll just say that the plan to move to Oklahoma has been put on hold. I’ve been a mess ever since. Having to re-evaluate my plans has caused all sorts of crying spells. I go through moments when I mourn what might be lost, then I think of the newness of my situation and I’m a little hopeful at the prospect of figuring this all out for myself without that tether to Bill. But it inevitably relapses to the mourning bit. It’s been incredible to see the amount of support of family, friends, and acquaintances that has come pouring forth.

I mostly feel like staying in bed in my own filth, crying and drinking obscene amounts of whiskey, but I realized that in order to feel better I needed to ask for help. It’s only been a day, but my friends have been there with open ears, sushi meals, and chocolate vodka to get me through this. My family has been there, not minding when their shoulders get wet. It’s great to know that though this is incredibly difficult for me to do, I don’t have to go through it alone.

I realize that if this relationship is really over, it is not the equivalent of my life being over. But that doesn’t change the fact that it hurts like hell. I feel like I’ve lost a great deal of hope – hope and possibility and all those things we talked about. Losing hope has got to be the hardest thing to lose. Having to rebuild it takes time and determination. I have none of the latter at the moment though I feel compelled to do something. I can’t be sure what that something is, but I’m pretty sure it’s buying a puppy. However, I realize when I’m feeling vulnerable, I have the tendency to make irresponsible and rash decisions, so I’m staying away from animal shelters and instead comforting myself with Taylor Swift songs and Sloane Crosley essays.

To my fifteen-year-old self

/ Ashley / 2 Comments

I  know your mom just gave you a gift. It’s a pink valentiney scrapbook from Target. You know, one of those premade ones where all you have to do is cut the pictures and paste them on the pages using an acid-free gluestick. It’s a nice gesture, but you hate it. You’re single, so it’s strange that she gave this to you. I’m still not sure why she did. Maybe she thought you would post pictures from a Valentine’s Day party in it. Or maybe scrapbook romantic pictures you cut out of magazines. But you’ve never so much as kissed a boy, so I understand your confusion regarding this gift.

It seems like a cruel joke, this scrapbook. When all the other girls at school are asking boys to the Sadie-Hawkins-style dance in February, you’re harboring a crush for a boy who doesn’t really know you exist. All you want is for a boy to adore you, to tell you that you’re beautiful and that he loves you. You won’t ever admit this aloud, but you just want a boyfriend. You’ll pretend that you really want to go to the dance, and that you’re disappointed when an honors string festival will take you out of town that weekend. But really, you’re glad to have an excuse. When girls ask you who you’re going with, you’ll say, “Oh, I’m not able to attend. I was invited to join an honors string festival that weekend.” You’ll pretend like you would have had somebody to go with, and that you’d fill this album with pictures of the two of you.

You’re not sure what makes people fall in love. It seems like something that will only happen to other people, that their brains are wired differently than yours. When you’re twenty-three, you’ll listen to a podcast titled “This is Your Brain on Love“, and you’ll recognize the chemicals and the interactions that create that sensation. Instead of betraying you, dopamine, norpinephrine, and oxytocin will work together to create what you’re dreaming of.

When he first smiles at you in orchestra, the dopamine will surge and you’ll return with an embarrassed, close-lipped grin. After the two of you have talked and he finally proposes the two of you meet up, the norepinephrine kicks in and focuses all those dopamine flashes toward him. And these flashes of dopamine and norepinephrine will get faster and faster because he texts you and asks when he can see you again, or you’ll remember the way he kissed you the night before. After a while, once the two of you have watched all of 30 Rock and Arrested Development, oxytocin will kick in and even things out, giving you a sustainable contentedness.

So you’ll sit down one afternoon and spend 40 minutes filling the thing with pictures of the two of you. And you’ll realize that all the time you waited might have really sucked, but that it’s been worth it. While you’re fifteen, you’ll imagine that the album will be capable of capturing the entire relationship – like it will develop these fantastic qualities which enable the viewer to realize that a few hours before that picture was taken, you had been carefully preparing homemade beef stroganoff for him, or that he had suggested playing laser tag instead of doing the chicken dance at that wedding.

The scrapbook that you’ve shoved under your dresser will someday be filled with pictures of you and a man who gives you pearls for Christmas. You’re impatient, I know. But don’t worry. He’ll be worth the wait.

Youth in Asia

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

I spent the day at my parents’ house, writing and editing a few pieces for a portfolio I have to hand in next week. When I walked through the door, Jack, my family’s younger dog, came lumbering through the kitchen to greet me. Hallie was asleep in the living room. I walked to her and ignored Jack’s insistent whining, and pet Hallie. It took a few seconds, but she cracked her eyes open and she threw a paw over my wrist, as if she were saying “Don’t, for any reason, stop petting me. Ever.” I wasn’t prepared for the tears to come as early as 9am.

I camped out on the couch with my laptop, diligently editing the Dear Jackass essay (which actually works better as a story than as an essay. As an essay it’s disgustingly self indulgent and pathetic sounding. As a story it’s got a great torch song sort of feel to it) and redrafting another piece I’ve been working on. Jack slept under my feet, and Hallie slept on the bed across the room. I found myself wondering how I was supposed to treat her. It was her last day alive. Was I supposed to shower her with affection all day? Was I supposed to indulge her every whim? If I did that, then she would know something was out of the ordinary. And for some reason, I didn’t really want that. I didn’t want her last day to be this festival of canine indulgences. I wasn’t going to take her for a car ride because she couldn’t get into my car, and I couldn’t lift her. Even if she did make it into my car, she’d spend most of the drive whining, even if I opened the window or got her to lie down. I thought about taking her for a walk, but she couldn’t do that either. Arthritis must have attacked her back hips because her back end would collapse every now and then, surprising her. She stopped chewing on toys when Jack came into the house and decided to tear them apart. What he didn’t tear, he drooled all over. I was left to give her affection and food. At this point, those were the things she loved most. Luckily, there was a canister full of peanut butter treats in the cupboard, and she looked at me with just pathetic enough of a look for me to give her half my turkey sandwich.

When my family returned at the end of the day, my mom asked Corey if he’d take pictures in the backyard. My initial reaction was, “God that’s tasteless. I don’t want a picture of her on her last day, prancing around in the backyard as if everything’s okay, when she’s just going to be dead in a few hours.” But I kept my mouth shut, because it wasn’t tasteless. It was just sentimental, and there’s really nothing wrong with that. We were all outside, quietly crying in our own ways. I don’t think anyone wanted to look at each other. I looked to my dad to give me a hug once I wiped my eyes, but realized he was doing it himself. It seemed like a selfish thing for me to ask for comfort at a time like this. We were all hurting, and who was I to say that my pain was any greater than that of my father, mother, or brothers?

Corey snapped photos, and it still seemed forced and exploitative. I felt a weird surge of anger, but I wasn’t sure who I was mad at. Myself for reacting? My mom for making the decision a few days earlier? The vet for agreeing to make a house call? My brother for taking the pictures? My dad for going along with it? My parents for getting her eleven years earlier and making me fall in love with her? Luckily, there was no portrait of the family, pretending to smile. I think I might have screamed if anyone had suggested it.

It just seemed so awful that we were all grieving while she continued to wag her tail, trusting us completely.

Back inside the house, we waited for the vet to arrive. I wondered who would be the last to touch her. It occurred to me there was another weird injustice that had happened. At some point, she started developing fatty tumors on her body. Her ears itched constantly. A canine version of menopause (that’s a thing, right?) developed and she’d stand in front of you, panting and dancing, not indicating thirst, hunger or the need to release her bladder, just saying, “I’m hot and you’re going to suffer with me by smelling my breath.” I got annoyed with her, not wanting to pet her as much since she was so persistent. But here we were, giving her the most attention she had gotten in years, and she was loving every second of it.

So many details made me angry: how my family all sat at the perimeter of the living room, waiting for a turn to pet her, how the last car she’d bark at would be driven by the man who was going to kill her, how he backed his truck into the driveway, how he had brought an assistant to watch our mourning, how strange it was to hear my father cry, how my when my mom cries, she lets out these quiet squeaks at the end of her exhales, how Ryan didn’t move to touch Hallie without an invitation from my father, how she needed two shots of tranquilizer before she rested her head on the blanket, how the vet and his assistant stepped outside to give us time, how he had to shave some fur off to find a vein, how when injected her with the anesthesia I couldn’t see the needle because my mother was leaning over her, blocking my view, how her tongue wouldn’t stay in her mouth and her eyes wouldn’t close, how the vet listened to her heart and stepped back, and how my father finally asked if she was gone and the vet replied quietly, “Yes, she’s gone.”

She was gone at 6:10.

The details made me angry because though they were my details, I knew this had all happened before. The vet knew the most convenient way to take the body was to back the truck in. They had seen families cry before. He knew that sometimes labs need two shots of tranquilizer before they slow down. To the vet, this was just another appointment. This was just the final task in his day, and it was his job to make sure we felt as if he had a meaningful connection to our dog, as if he remembered her as a puppy, though he sees hundreds of animals every week.

I wanted some sort of reassurance that this was important to somebody other than myself. I wanted to know that Hallie no longer living was going to effect the world in a bigger way than Jack wondering where his buddy had gone and my family feeling her like a phantom limb. But the fact is that there will not be giant ripples felt throughout the world. My childhood dog is no longer alive. I know that other people may not care that she once carried around stuffed animals that we called her “babies”, but it matters to me and my family. And while it might be disheartening to realize my experience is not truly unique, there’s a comfort in knowing that millions of other people have experienced what I am, and that they have gone on to remember their dogs by photos and fond memories.