Hope Dies Last

Dear Readers,

In the next couple of months I will be making some big changes to Hope Dies Last. I feel that it is time for my blog to evolve from an anonymous online journal to my own personal/professional website–real identity and all. I say professional because whether I am published novelist or not, I am a writer. Yesterday’s manicure was payed by money that I earned through writing. Ditto the H&M cardigan I am wearing right now. Ditto the food in my cupboards and the gladiator sandals on my feet. I write therefore I am, you know?

It no longer makes any sense to me to split up my identity.  The writing that I have done on this blog is something that I am proud of; I have even  used some of this writing to get payed writing gigs. It is time for Hope to come out of the closet and join me in my real world.

Of course, this is complicated. I have exposed myself on this blog honestly and authentically. I have written about my emotional world as if no one was reading. And its been rewarding to say the least.  To be able to share my experiences with perfect strangers and for those strangers to then share their own stories, their own thoughts has enriched my life in no uncertain terms. But, I no longer feel comfortable continuing down this path of navel-grazing obsession.

Yesterday, I took the first steps that I need to take to achieve the evolution of this blog. Half of my posts have now been set to private. But you can still find them all in Google Reader.  (Google invading our privacy one badly designed application at a time). In the next couple of months, I will make more changes. I will probably move the contents of this blog to my own name domain. This website will be a one stop shop for all the various writing projects I am involved in. I will use my real name. I haven’t ironed out all the details yet, but Hope Dies Last is a name that I am attached to. I can’t let it go. So, one way or another, it will be included in this new website.

The blog itself will remain intact. I will continue to write daily. The content will be slightly different; but my voice will stay the same.

I hope that you will all continue to follow me.

Because come on, as a self-professed voyeur myself, I am certain that you will want to know when this perpetually single girl falls in love and is loved in return.

Despite these changes, one promise I can make is that when that day comes?

I will–most definitely–be writing about it.

x

Hope

In the beginning…

…it wasn’t his kiss that left me breathless.

It was the thought of what the kiss could mean.

In the middle…

…it wasn’t his presence that made my life beautiful.

It was the thought of what his presence should mean.

At the end…

…it wasn’t his words that left me broken.

It was the thought of what his words would (always) mean.

My therapist believes that I am on the brink of a breakthrough.

This is all at once an exciting and terrifying change of pace; ever since she’s known me I seem to have been going from breakdown to breakdown.Actually, ever since you’ve all known me I seem be going from breakdown to breakdown.  Right?

These mini-breakdowns have all been preceded by some form of rejection or abandonment by a man.  I have always known–intellectually, at least–that I have daddy issues. Father died abruptly at a critical juncture in my development. Of course, I have daddy issues. I have watched enough movies, read enough books and related to Meredith Grey far too well to not know this. I did not need a therapist to point it out to me. But it seems that I did need a therapist to dig a little deeper and allow me to understand this on an emotional level.

I did need a therapist to show me that my daddy issues are not there simply because he died. “Isn’t it strange” she asked me, “That in 16 months of therapy all I know about your father is that he died? You spent 11 years with him, Hope. How was your relationship with him when he was alive?”

I was floored. Yes. At some point in my life, I did have a father.  Spontaneous, soft tears burst forth and I used a phrase I have never used in therapy before.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Resistance. This is the stuff that therapists’ wet dreams are made of.

But in her wily shrink ways she had been preparing me for this moment for 16 months. All those sessions led to this one session. For 16 months I danced around the topic. She let me. Today, she probed further. And I finally broke down and allowed her to do her job.

Today I know something that I didn’t know yesterday.

Every time a man leaves me, or rejects me or doesn’t want me I allow myself to finally grieve for the father I never mourned. Not because I didn’t want to or because I didn’t feel to, but because I just didn’t know how to.

Yes. I am definitely on the brink of something here and I really, really hope it’s a breakthrough.

‘Time heals all wounds’, the tongue-tied tell the broken-hearted.

As seconds roll into hours and hours roll into relentlessly long days and those days turn into weeks with lines crossed through them to indicate that painstakingly slow passage of time gone, the open wounds do indeed heal.

But when the pain eases, when the stabbing, numbing ache of loss fades, all that is left is a sweet, sweet sadness. It is that sadness of almost. I almost got him. He almost got me. We almost got it right. At the core of sadness is resigned anger; no matter how much we want, how hard we try, how much we yearn nothing in the past is in our control. I get angry at him for not seeing the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at myself for allowing my fears of losing him to invade the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at the both of us for giving up, for not trusting, for not letting go.

Four weeks later, I am out of despair. I am healing nicely.

But, I’m still sad. Because we almost had it. We almost got it right.We stood at the edge, we even held hands, we looked down into the unknown, and instead of  closing our eyes and taking that giant leap forward together, we stood on that edge–eyes wide open–and we argued. ‘Should we should jump on three or should we  jump after three?’ And because we took too long, because we could not make a decision,  because we were both too cowardly to jump without wings,  our hands fell to each of our  frozen sides and we walked away.

It was easier to do that, I suppose. I suppose, it was the safest, most logical strategy. I suppose, I am better off. I suppose, he is too.

So four weeks later, I am finally there. I have accepted that it is indeed over.

Well, almost.

I have found that in crisis, the human mind will find the smallest, most inconspicuous detail and use that detail to pump hope-infused blood to the heart. It’s the only way it can keep it beating.

And anyone who has been on the receiving end of a break up recently knows that which I speak of is true.

In my case, I refer you to a pair of beautiful, gold chandelier earrings that I accidentally left behind the second to last night I spent at his place. I took them off that night feeling that our ‘relationship’ was moving forward. I was happy. We had a really good night; one of the best. Five days later, it was over. My earrings still sitting on a ledge in his bathroom.

A week after he ended it, I sent him a message requesting that he return my earrings. It was brief and to the point. And entirely unrepresentative of the way I felt inside.

He didn’t reply. And 16 days later,  he has yet to return them.

Experience tells me that it is over and that reconciliation at this point is unlikely. He hasn’t attempted to call me. He hasn’t attempted to see me. Our mutual friends are quick to tell me that IT IS OVER. My friends are quick to tell me I have to MOVE ON.

But all these thoughts create a tightness in my chest. To ease this pain, my mind pumps hope-infused blood to my heart. And so I cling on to those un-returned earrings. I attach meaning to the fact that he hasn’t returned them. As if he sees my earrings as some kind of alternative to my presence. A way to stay connected.

But the thing about those gold earrings is that–just like all my hopes–they’re fake.

There is no real hope here. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. And I’m starting to believe that is all hope really is.

A counterfeit emotion. A false sense of security.

A fake pair of golden earrings.