In some weak attempt to meet someone I spoke to a prospective date yesterday.  He sounded masculine, looks attractive, seems intelligent, good job, own house…blah blah blah.

After a short while I despaired.  Why bother?

I am not going through what I went through last year.  I refuse.

I hung up.

This is the legacy of hopelessness that I am left with after my time with Jake.

I am not going to have a relationship any time soon.  If ever.  I am not going to risk falling in love with and painfully out of love with anyone ever again.

“Into love, and out again, Thus I went, and thus I go. Spare your voice, and hold your pen — Well and bitterly I know.  All the songs were ever sung, All the words were ever said; Could it be, when I was young, Some one dropped me on my head?”

Dorothy Parker

I reread his final letter to me yesterday.  I hadn’t read it for some time.  If I had received that letter now it might have meant something.  It might have put to bed every miserable resentment that consumes my brain like so many flesh-eating maggots.

I want to believe that he was sorry but he lied so often and so deeply that I simply can’t forgive him.  I want to.  I really do.

He just lied about everything.  He trapped me and toyed with me and used me then at the crucial moment he tossed me aside.   This doesn’t get any better.  Why?  Why do I remember him?  Why when every other man I ever loved can be stowed…do I remember him?

Perhaps because it was this time last year that we were in France enjoying/not enjoying out road trip.  Walking on egg shells because he had said that we were not lovers.  I scarcely touched him until he invited me to have sex.  Because he was running the show I just bought the food and chauffeured him.  I just served him when ever his ass itched for attention.

Jake this time last year contemplating

I imagine him in some chic Nantucket house with his new Daddy boyfriend.  The same one he began seeing before we went to France?  Telling him what to do.  Demanding that he take it, suck it, open it.

I imagine him with that cute blond boy he liked.  I imagine him.  I imagine him living a full life because I helped him over the rubicon…where he left me.  So I could never celebrate what came next.

Yes, he apologized for his cruel words.  Yes.  Did I believe his self-serving apology?  His fake contrition?  No I did not.

I am scarcely speaking to the twins.  I have run out of fuel.   Like a ghost in the house I tread carefully around them.  Land mines in the carpet I am that close to triggering a tantrum.

Whenever I get close to anyone, when I feel myself tip toward feeling love in any of its many disguises…I stop.  I run.  I hide.  I push them away.  That is his legacy.  I hope he is proud of himself.

Robby says, “I love you man.” and I wince.  Leave me alone Robby.  No more love.

The book continues to be written.  It’s hard.  Very hard.  Prose is a bitch.  I would rather kill gophers.  I would rather walk around the garden tending the plants. I spend all day in the garden rescuing old-fashioned tomatoes from being savaged by critters.  Consequently the garden looks amazing, like it never has before.  I spend so much time tending it.  Trimming.  Weeding.  Lopping.

The Chinese say: “If you would be happy for a week, take a wife.  If you would be happy for a month, kill your pig.  If you would be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden.”

In the novel I get to contemplate murder but the only person in real life that I want to kill is myself.  The twins will move out soon.  Perhaps, just perhaps I will muster up the courage to finally do it rather than just write about it.  I don’t want to make a mess.  I will have to take care of the dog first.  So he isn’t left alone.   He will only pine for me.

I understand now how and why Issie Blow was so determined.   When death calls your name.  When is it time to make death your friend?   I am running out of fuel, not just for the twins…but myself.