If I had balls, it would have been the figurative equivalent of being kicked in them.

"I have more free time now, it's great."

My heart has been broken. The family I chose for myself broken. The home I loved left. My viscera spread in front of the world.


But it's worth it. Because he has more free time.

Of all the fish, in all the sea, you had to be the one to swim into mine.

I never realized how many cliches there are associated with a breakup. I've come to learn just how many there are over the past week.

I don't understand why there is such a profound need of people to make sad people feel less sad. And it's not even that. It's a profound need to feel like they're doing something to make people feel less sad. I have been remarkably self-centered today, even for me. All that I can think about is how sad I am. How much I miss him. How much I want him to be there tomorrow. But he won't be.


I get that this too shall pass. I get that better things are coming my way. I get that good things and bad things happen in life. I'm 27, not 4. The thing that people gloss over, or seem to miss completely and utterly...cruise on past like it's a scary doll shop next to the highway is that I have lost my person. My person who was supposed to be with me through the good things and the bad things, and through the scary doll shop.

Not only have I lost my person, but I think maybe I was never his person back. Or at least, he never knew I was trying to be his person. He never got that I was excited for the K.C. and tried to help anyway I could. Why else would I have cleaned bar toilets at three in the morning in suede steve madden heels, for heaven's sake? Love.

I have lost my person. I have lost my partner. I have lost my best friend. I have lost one third of the family I tried to make for myself. I have lost my person to take care of, to cook for, to hold, to cherish, to nurse, to love. I have lost him.

Please let me grieve him before I go fishing.

Heel.

I feel like my broken shoe sitting next to my old front door waiting to be thrown away. Scratch that. I feel like its mate. I'm one half of a pair that's being thrown away because the other half is so damaged the whole pair must be scrapped.

I might be the broken one in the pair. I don't know. I can't tell anymore. I don't feel broken, not broken to the point of being tossed out anyway. I feel strong. I feel ready for the rest of my life to begin. I feel like someone who loved genuinely. I don't feel crazy. I don't feel like someone who could ever be with someone for money. I've never felt like a whore.

Then again I also felt loved. I don't know when that ended. I don't know when I became a storm to be weathered, a burden to be borne. Was I ever the partner that I thought I was? Did I ever help him? Ever comfort him? Make him laugh? Hug him when he was sad? Rent Rambo when he was sick? Was I ever that Katie that walked the dog, bought the groceries, did the laundry, cooked the food, cleaned the toilets, planned the trips, bought the guitar, played the tennis, drove three hours to listen to him play for 20 minutes, learned about stocks, sat in border traffic for hours day after day, loved the family, tolerated the dog (not ours, the other one), found friendship with the friends, rode the rollercoasters and listened to the same joke over and over again as I fell up the stairs for hours? Wasn't that me? Aren't I the girl who waited for a year, watching the news night after night, hoping there would be no mortar attacks near Tikrit? Wasn't it me who heaved herself out of the dark swirling mass of violence and crazy so I could be with my person? Wasn't that me?

Wasn't it?

In which I experience a fantasy.

Saturday is bright and crisp and green. Spring is graduation. Graduation from the dark, cold struggle of winter. The graduation of tulips and daffodils and hyacinths from bulbs. Roses are a bit away in bloom but all of mine are there, waiting for me outside Carver Gym. I'm still in my robe, holding my hat down with one hand running to find them, paper scroll clutched in my hand. I spot them, run and leap into my older brother's awaiting hug. Then my dad's, then my Heather's, then Grandma's and so on and so forth. Mouse is there too, given that this is my delusion.

And then, the crowds part. Like I always wanted them to on days I was feeling crummy and just wanted to see a friendly face and there he is. Big, fresh bouqet of blooms in his arms, looking for me. Making the Dylan face and blinking at me.

All is forgiven without words being spoken. The flowers are crushed in the endless big hug. Mouse is wiggling with ecstasy at her people back together, finally. A week is after all, like 3 months in dog years. I cry, he tries.

We enter couples counseling. I get a job. The club is successful. He gets why I'm there.
I pay the rent. We get another dog. We move to Seattle. He finally, finally, finally finds what he's been looking for and realizes that he's had it all along.





And then I wake up. And realize that even my fantasy life involves therapy.

My Best Friend

I have this friend. My best friend, these days. Not because my other friends are somehow lacking or have been replaced. But this girl, this is a girl who would never leave me of her own free will. This is a girl who will love me completely, utterly and hopelessly no matter what I do. She cuddles when I need her. Hugs in her own way. Makes me get outside in the fresh air everyday whether I want to or not. Makes me realize that a pine cone can be just as interesting as anything else I might encounter. Reminds me that playing with others is the best thing in life. Greets me everyday like she thought she'd never see me again.

Yes. I am in love with my dog.

A Place to Call My Own

There is an irony to myspace, in that so much of the time it doesn't feel like mine at all. Or at least, not just mine. Myspace and Facebook are all part of the me that belongs to other people, the part of me that wants they're approval and opinions and input. They have they're place of course. I want other people to be part of me, and even if I didn't they already are. But I need a place just for me. Especially right now.

I like the idea of never really knowing what the future will bring. At least in theory, when the future is far off, all gauzy and grey on the horizon, just waiting to be burned away. I like it considerably less now that it's hovering around on my calendar. March 22, 2008. Western Washington University Winter Commencement. Given my detatchment to the entirety of the rest of my college experience, part of me thinks this is a useless excercise--wearing a silly hat and a silly robe, shaking the hands of people I've never met and to whom I'm just another face heading out of the higher education factory and into the world.

But that's just a part of it. Another part is apprehension (rapidly nearing debilihitating fear), another is gratitude, and joy. But most of all I'm proud.